


Rockaway Beach

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Surfers, Fluff, M/M, Surfer!Cas, heroics, hunter!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just another foggy day in Pacifica and Cas paddles out for a surf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockaway Beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsorbae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Fea!
> 
> All the places depicted in this fic are real, which means that Dean and Cas are also real ;)

It’s summer, which means another overcast day at Rockaway Beach. Even in the dog days of summer, Pacifica is covered in a heavy sheen of moisture. They didn’t call that novel _The House of Sand and Sun_ , did they? No, it was _The House of Sand and Fog_.

Cas had read it when he was in graduate school in San Diego, which is also where he was bitten by the surfing bug. Summers were warmer in San Diego. Well, you still had your May Gray and your June Gloom, but when the gloom lifted, the sand under your toes felt warmer, and you didn’t have to wear a wetsuit with a hood. Cas still refuses to wear the hood, even in the bone-chilling fog of the Bay Area.

He likes it here. Rockaway Beach is usually quiet. The Sea Breeze motel looks like something frozen in the 60’s forever. Most of Pacifica seems time-locked, like some wizard trapped it in a mystical sphere. He waxes his board with practiced precision. He had gotten off work early to catch a few waves, and they’re good today, not the ankle slappers you sometimes get. But it’s still dangerous out there - the rip currents are known for being tricky in these waters, all along the Highway 1 coast, he’d bet. Not that the signs keep the surfers out: the sea is calling.

The beach is quiet, but out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see a couple of guys who seem somehow purposefully out of place. Not that being fully dressed at the beach in the Bay Area is anything out of the ordinary. But there’s a certain look about them. Not homeless, exactly, but a vagabond look. Their boots are dusty from walking in sand, their hair is ruffled by the wind. Neither one of them has sunglasses. They must not think it’s very bright, but Cas has to wear them even in fog, his blue eyes being much more sensitive to light, he figures.

He goes on waxing his board, his eyes occasionally straying to the strange duo sitting in the sand about twenty feet away. One of the guys is breathtaking. And Cas doesn’t use that word lightly. He actually feels a hand reach into his chest and take his breath away each time he catches him looking over. His eyes might be reflecting the waves, shades of aquamarine, at times bright emerald, like jewels sparkling in the dim sunlight. Cas thinks he might have freckles.

That guy he’s with - boyfriend? Maybe not. They don’t seem too touchy-feely with each other. Probably straight. They’re dressed ragingly heterosexually, but then again, Cas himself isn’t exactly sporting a tight t-shirt with a rainbow on it. Although he is sporting his wetsuit, which is currently only half-way pulled on, covering his legs and ass and leaving his chest exposed. He’s put some waterproof sunscreen on his face and neck but he’s not bothering with the rest. He’s gotten used to looking pale, like the rest of the locals. 

The hot guy with the jade eyes isn’t pale. Definitely not from around here.

When his board is fully waxed, and he can no longer use that activity as an excuse to keep sneaking furtive glances at the hot dude and his hopefully-non-boyfriend without it bordering on creepy, Cas zips up his wetsuit, puts on his gloves and booties, fastens the leash to his ankle, and heads towards the waves. It looks like the sun is going to dip below the marine layer in a few minutes, and then the sky will turn a blushing pink, if he’s lucky.

***

Well, what do you know? The rat infestation in Pacifica had turned out to be just a rat infestation in Pacifica. Evidently, they have a lot of rats. Must be an El Niño year or something. Nothing even remotely supernatural. Dean sips his beer furtively. Technically, you’re not supposed to have glass containers on beaches in California, but it doesn’t look like anyone in Pacifica gives a particular shit.

“No lifeguards,” Dean mumbles, for no reason in particular.

“California is in an economic crisis, Dean. I don’t think they can afford to put a lifeguard on every public beach,” Sam responds, sounding like the giant nerd that he is. 

“Haven’t been back here since Stanford, huh?” Dean doesn’t know why he’s picking at that scab, but at least having awkward conversations with his brother is keeping his mind occupied with something other than Sex Hair twenty feet away and waxing his board like there’s no tomorrow. Dean’s got something else he can wax.

Ah geez. He didn’t mean it to sound that dirty, even in his own head. Except he kinda did, because the guy has ridiculous cheekbones and his lips are so pink that Dean just wants to walk right up to him and drag the pad of his thumb against the chapped surface of the delicate skin there to see if the surfer dude is wearing lipstick. He’s pretty pale for a surfer dude, but then again, they don’t call it _NoCal_ for nothing. Or is it NorCal? Whatever they call it, it’s cold as fuck, for summer. 

“Never really hung out in Pacifica when I lived in Stanford,” Sammy shrugs, his eyes fixed in the distance where a couple of other surfer dudes or dudettes are bobbing up and down on the waves. The rocks at Rockaway Beach actually do look pretty threatening.

“It’s weird here,” Dean says, for lack of better sentiment.

“Yeah. I like it though.”

They sit in a companionable silence and Dean tries really hard not to stare at Sex Hair and his perky nipples, probably made even more perky by the fog.

***

Cas paddles out and doesn’t have to wait long to catch his first wave. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can still see the two guys sitting in the sand, drinking their beers and looking about them as if at any minute someone’s gonna come tell them they’re breaking the law. Maybe they _are_ breaking the law? Who knows, they might be some kind of fugitives. Runaways from a modeling school, probably.

Cas eats it, the salty brine of the cold ocean filling his mouth and nose. He should really pay more attention on the currents than to what’s happening on the shore. He pulls the board back by the leash and climbs back up, so that he can paddle back out, and wait for another cresting wave.

The sun has now dipped low enough to color the skies in shades of crimson. The marine layer is being lit from beneath in a palette of bright pastels. This is his favorite time of day to surf, Cas thinks. And then, unbidden, his thoughts travel back to the beautiful boy on the beach. He’s not a boy, Cas can see that plainly enough. The guy has to be closer to thirty than to twenty. But something about that freckle-sprinkled nose, and those pouty lips… Cas tries to shake the thoughts away, but they’ve taken hold of him. If he belonged to Cas, if Cas had any right to call him _his_ , then he would wake him up every morning with kisses and whisper, “Good morning, beautiful boy,” against his sleep-warmed skin.

The ocean water is cold, but Cas feels very warm on the inside, heated by the furnace of his straying thoughts.

***

“You’re staring at that guy,” Sammy says, flashing Dean a shit-eating grin.

“What guy? There’s no guy.”

“Ah huh, the guy with the bright blue surf board.”

It matches his eyes, Dean thinks, but doesn’t say.

“I don’t see a blue surf board.”

“Whatever you say, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes. Total bitch.

Except Dean totally is still watching that guy, whose name is Sex Hair, Dean has established this. Sex Hair has really broad shoulders and washboard abs, and his thighs could probably crush Dean, let’s face it, even though he hadn’t seen Sex Hair’s thighs, but he can extrapolate from the data he’s availed himself of. And _man_ , it’s been a long time since he’s wanted to be crushed by someone this much. It’s embarrassing. And Sam is laughing at him, and the whole thing is just… unseemly, is what.

“We should go,” Dean grumbles. They’ve tarried in Pacifica long enough.

“Go where?”

“Hit the road?”

Sam gives Dean a look that Dean is going to ignore. “Yeah, mmkay,” Sam draws himself up to his full gigantor height, brushing sand that’s clinging to his jeans off with his propeller-like hands. “Let’s hit the road, Dean.”

That’s when Sex Hair catches another wave. And Dean is standing up again, and he can swear for a moment their eyes lock, and then another wave, a rogue wave if Dean’s ever seen one, comes up on the guy and flips him right over before he even has the chance to register what’s happening. Dean’s heart stills in his chest.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the water, where the waves are still breaking against each other.

“Did your boyfriend eat it again?” Sammy teases.

“Shit,” Dean repeats. “Come on!” He’s waiting for that black head of wetted down hair to surface again. Instead, he sees the bright blue board, floating in the white wash, the leash loose and unattached.

“Holy shit, Dean.” The brothers’ eyes meet and then they both look out towards the horizon.

“Fuck!” Dean’s already taking off his boots.

“Dean, don’t! Come on, the rip currents!”

But that’s exactly why he’s not going to let his brother’s worrying hold him back. He understands rip currents. Knows how easily they can carry you out to sea.

“You’re not a fucking lifeguard!” Sam shouts and Dean throws himself onto the washed up board and begins to paddle out to where he last spotted him - Sex Hair - _damn it_ he never even had a chance to learn his real name!

He tears through the waves, eyes scanning for that black hair. His arms are getting tired, but he doesn’t care. This is what he does: he’s a rescuer, he rescues people. Sometimes whether or not they want to be rescued, but that’s a topic of discussion for the therapist’s couch, and Dean doesn’t have a therapist.

He sees him, struggling against the current that’s carried him too far off course. That’s the thing about rip currents, you have to swim perpendicular to them to get out, but still, sometimes you just don’t have enough strength to keep swimming. And Sex Hair looks like he’s beginning to weaken.

“Here, take the board!” Dean shouts as he paddles within reach. He dives into the water and pushes the board towards the floundering surfer.

A flash of what looks like recognition flashes in the guy’s eyes and then he seizes the board and pulls his body on top of it. Dean will have to swim to shore from here, but he feels that his work has been done. He’s about to dive under another oncoming wave when a strong hand grips him by his soggy jeans and pulls him close.

“Are you insane? You could’ve died!” The guy’s eyes are even bluer up close. He’s dripping wet, flushed with adrenaline, and yet somehow still manages to be incredibly stern as he looks down at Dean.

“You’re welcome,” Dean sasses back, one hand holding onto the board, the other still treading water.

“It’s too cold, you’re not wearing a wetsuit.”

“You didn’t give me time to change.”

“This isn’t a Jack and Rose moment from _Titanic_ ,” Sex Hair snarks and slips back into the water. “You get back onto the surfboard and don’t argue with me.”

“Jeez, you always so bossy with people who come to your rescue?” Except Dean’s teeth are chattering and he realizes what a gigantic ass he’d been for paddling out here to save this ingrate in the first place.

“I could never forgive myself if something happened to you,” Sex Hair replies, his voice hoarse, possibly from the cold water, but maybe he just normally talks like that - like dripping sex with a touch of butterscotch. Dean might be freezing to death but his dick twitches at the sound of it in his death throes.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean says as Sex Hair’s hands stubbornly push him up and onto the surfboard again. “Not Rose.”

“I’m Cas,” he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Dean’s ever seen. “You’re incredibly brave. And stupid.”

“Cas,” Dean says and smiles in return. Another wave covers them both and Dean thinks maybe he doesn’t actually care so much because Cas is holding his hand. Even through the weird vinyl feel of his gloves, Dean can sense their joint heartbeat.

Cas lifts his head and Dean tries to follow his eyes. Up there, above them, is a rescue helicopter. His genius brother must have called 911.

“Looks like we’re both getting saved,” Cas grins and doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Next time, you can just rescue yourself. It’s cold as fuck in this ocean!” Dean mutters and clenches his teeth.

“You really are not from around here at all, are you?”

Dean shakes his head and enjoys the feel of Cas’ arm slung around him, uselessly attempting to rub warmth into his limbs. “Nope. Kansas.”

“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dean.”

“You _didn’t_.”

“I did.”

“Dumbass.”

“Hero.”

Dean opens his eyes and Cas’ face is right in front of him, and he’s still smiling. His eyes are impossibly blue, like an entire galaxy got spilled into his irises.

“I didn’t want you to die without learning your name,” Dean confesses, words shooting out of him as if pressed by the cold inside his body.

“I only ate it because it looked like you and your boyfriend were leaving.”

“He’s my brother!” Dean chokes out and literally almost chokes.

“Oh.”

There’s a ladder being lowered from the helicopter. Someone is waving for them to grab onto it. And then Dean feels Cas’ arms wrapping around him, and he looked really fit, but his arms feel even stronger than they looked, and Dean is kind of ashamed to admit he likes that. Like _a lot_.

“Your board?” he asks, as he’s being airlifted out of the oceanic void.

“Screw it,” Cas whispers into the back of Dean’s neck.

“Yeah okay, screw it,” Dean repeats and hangs on.

***

Dean. His name is Dean. And he’s asleep in Cas’ bed. And he doesn’t even snore, that’s how disgustingly perfect he is, and Cas doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve God sending him an angel like that. 

They went back to Rockaway Beach last night. It was a beautiful sunset, all pinks and oranges and five shades of gem-like azure. Cas loves the dog days of summer, but especially here in the Bay Area. This is when it normally starts to warm up again. He held Dean’s hand and ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and tried to count the freckles across his nose bridge. There were too many and Cas loved each one of them as it they were stars in the hidden constellations of Dean’s face. They ate at Nick’s and joked about the music they played there. And then Cas asked Dean to stay.

And Dean shrugged and said, “Yeah, what the hell.”

Sam is asleep in the basement. The house is big enough for all three of them. It was a fixer upper when Cas had bought it. Dean thinks with a little work he can make it “habitable” as he puts it, but it seems already habitable enough to Cas now that Dean’s there with him.

He wonders if he will ever look his fill, and then he nuzzles into the warm skin of Dean’s neck, wraps his arm tightly around Dean’s ribs, and mouths softly at his earlobe until Dean stirs in his arms and tries to burrow deeper into him. 

“Good morning, beautiful boy,” Cas whispers.

“Good morning, angel.”


End file.
